


Soft Comforts

by Sevent



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Brief Roach Appearance, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sickfic, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22540618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sevent/pseuds/Sevent
Summary: Jaskier falls ill on the road. Geralt's not good at this, but he tries.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 146
Kudos: 2671
Collections: GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY, favorites





	Soft Comforts

**Author's Note:**

> This one is a little late, but I also couldn't leave it alone even though it's 2am here, pff.

It starts with rain.

Well, if you ask Geralt, it started way back when Jaskier decided to tread the road with the witcher for a bit of adventure and song, but Jaskier would not count that as the beginning to his forthcoming predicament, so.

It starts with rain, when they’re camped in a cave during a torrential downpour. It comes upon them out of nowhere, before they get to stop at a nearby village. Geralt actually has the coin on them for a night’s stay, for once in his piss-poor career as a monster hunter with everything going swell. And it pours. By the gods, it _pours_ , and Geralt, by some dumb stroke of luck, had been sequestered in the cave when it started, halfway through setting up the bedrolls for the evening. 

Unfortunately, Jaskier had been taking a piss out in the woods, where the veritable storm roared with ghastly winds. 

The thing is, when Jaskier comes in drenched, cold and shivering, he’s far from looking downtrodden. The unexpected rain does nothing to ruin his mood or his cheer when undressing to dry up next to the fire. He quips a few lewd jokes, even eggs Geralt on for fussing over the wet stains he leaves on all their dry equipment. But his clothes remain sodden in the morning and despite Geralt warning him that it’s a bad idea to wear humid clothes for the remainder of their ride to town, the bastard still does it on the grounds of propriety.

“I can’t just go around town _shirtless_ , we’re not all feral forest children like you.”

The next day, Jaskier sneezes into his sleeves. Geralt slaps the back of his head with a loud _I told you so._

But it gets worse. Worse than either of them would have thought. 

They stay one night in town, eat a poor meal with terrible spices, and go about their way when the townsfolk get antsy with the witcher’s unneeded presence. The bard tries to sing a few of them out of their repugnance, but change is not quick to come to the people of this particular kingdom. A few do give him coin for his tunes, though. His performance did go without a hitch, not a single sneeze or ticklish wet nose interrupting his acts. 

Once they’re out on the road, Jaskier wakes in his bedroll with a sting behind his eyes. It’s not a terrible headache, just a hindrance while they walk below cloudless skies and a bright summer sun to warm their backs. Not the first time he’s gotten one after a rowdy evening, and neither of them earn good rest out in the dirt so he chalks it up to stress and lack of pillows for his neck. 

As nightfall comes, the headache doesn’t subside. On the contrary, the sting becomes an ache, which then becomes a throbbing stab every time he moves his eyes to the side instead of turning his head fully. Surely with tonight’s rest, his condition will improve. It’s rare that a migraine would extend past a day for him.

“Bard, eat your roast.”

Geralt nudges him once and Jaskier remembers that staring blankly at his food is rude. Or—well, not _rude_ exactly. Not for Geralt, who wouldn’t care for proper eating etiquette outside of a king’s court. It’s just that the bard is not one for bouts of silence, and Geralt seems to have picked up that something isn’t right with him.

“You good?” the witcher asks once Jaskier is done with most of his portion and remains quiet still. The bard doesn’t want to worry him over nothing, so he says he’s tired and rolls to his makeshift bed. Lets the witcher know that the meat tasted smoky, if a little bland, and that next time they stop at a market they should indulge in some herbs for their travels. Geralt throws a meaty bone at him, though it’s light and small enough to bounce off his blanket.

The fire crackles loud in the absence of his voice. Dawn promises to be a long trek up the valley to the next village where, according to the good people of the region, a troublesome monster infestation has taken root. Good coin for the witcher, he knows. 

Jaskier closes his eyes and prays to whatever god will listen to have mercy on him in the morning and rid him of his ailment. 

But as it turns out, the gods are utter _shit_. 

Instead of a headache—which does dwindle down to a lesser, manageable pain, Jaskier wakes with the surprise of a sore throat. This, Geralt immediately notices. Difficult to hide that when the bard refuses to sing for the rest of the day, and it is embarrassing to admit. 

“I must have strained myself too hard, yesterday!” Jaskier is quick to excuse, kicking a few stones out of the path. It’s a lie. He hadn’t sung more than what he usually does. Less, even. Going by the persistent pounding of his head, it is likely the bard is coming down with something. A cold, or a flu. Nothing a good herbalist or a healer couldn’t solve. But if he is truly sick, the witcher will most definitely leave him at the next settlement—for his own good he’ll say, straightforward and logical—and Jaskier isn’t ready to part ways with his friend yet. Knowing how the witcher moves, they might not meet for months. Possibly years. All Jaskier will have is the gossip that reaches his ears. Hearsay. 

More than anything, it terrifies him that one day it will bring dreadful news, days and weeks too late for him to do anything about it. So Jaskier is determined to push through the aches and the prickle in the back of his throat if it means spending precious time alongside his dear friend. 

Geralt rides on Roach, though he guides her to match Jaskier’s stroll. His yellow eyes pierce right through the bard, watching how he kicks another pebble into the grass. 

“You strained your voice,” Geralt eventually parrots. “Sure.” He sounds doubtful, but leaves it at that. Roach sniffs once. Jaskier rather feels like they’re both judging how long he’s willing to act like everything’s fine with him. 

If anything, that makes Jaskier stubborn enough to pull out his lute and, if not sing, then strum to whatever ballad comes to mind, even the incomplete ones still bouncing inside his head. All the way to the next town, if he could.

Roach nips at his shoulder, the little brat. Not hard, but obviously she’s miffed. 

“Stop that, you! Fine, I’ll give it a rest. My hands were getting tired anyway.” 

At that, Geralt grins. He gives his mare a couple gentle pats as the bard checks his doublet for tears. “Good girl.”

 _Oh, they’re both such an infuriating duo_ , Jaskier thinks, hands raised to the sky in defeat. But at least he’s forgotten his discomforts for the time being. And the smile grazing the witcher’s face is a great relief. 

A few days spent sick on the road is worth every easy smile.

* * *

Days pass, and Jaskier’s health only seems to be getting worse. The headache never disappears, which leaves him irritable and sensitive. His sore throat turns his voice hoarse. There is little he can do without tiring fast. But still he pushes on. 

Geralt cannot offer him any of his potions, not without killing him. Witcher remedies are not kind on mortal bodies. 

Gradually, the witcher’s flat jokes are replaced by worried expressions, ever increasing in frequency. Even plucky Roach stops pinching Jaskier’s sleeves in favor of sniffing at his hair every few stops, her way of showing concern.

After that first day, Geralt hasn’t asked how Jaskier was fairing. It is clear to him that the bard is not well, though he will not say how badly his symptoms have gotten. For some cursed reason, Jaskier believes he can handle it, that it’s _‘nothing he hasn’t dealt with before’_ , per his words. And then, in the morning of the day they’re to reach the infested town, Geralt wakes up early to pack their belongings and sees Jaskier sprawled face down outside of his bedroll. 

In the low light, Jaskier looks cold. Motionless. Geralt’s heart does an unnatural leap inside his ribcage at the sight.

“Jaskier,” he calls, soft, as he kneels by his side to stir him awake. 

It takes the bard a few seconds to rouse, longer than Geralt is comfortable with. As Jaskier flips over with a groan, Geralt lays his naked palm over a pale cheek and recoils. Sweat dries on his skin. A fever builds beneath the surface. 

“Jaskier, get up.”

The bard does as he’s told, slowly. “What... _hn_ is it?”

Geralt doesn’t like how rough he sounds. “You’re feverish. We need to reach town, sleeping out in the elements won’t help you.”

“I’m,” it sounds like Jaskier is about to follow that up with _‘fine’_ , but his head swivels for a moment and he forgets to say the words, in exchange for bringing large gulps of air into his lungs. “Hold on.” He’s cradling his head like it hurts something fierce. A small wounded sound escapes him, betraying his silence. 

It makes a growl build in the witcher’s chest. “We’re going. Now.”

“Geralt—”

Roach stamps at his interrupting whistle. Her saddle can fit two, though it won’t make for an enjoyable ride. No matter. Geralt straps their bags to hers and swiftly, he lifts the bard to the front where the horn will offer him some support. 

“Easy Roach.” As the witcher mounts the tight space left in the seat, Jaskier slips forward suddenly like dead weight. 

Without hesitation, Geralt’s arms seize him before he breaks his nose on the horse’s lean neck, or worse. The bard doesn’t shout. Doesn’t really react beyond a weak cough. His trembling hands fold around the reins, the rest of him sagging against the witcher’s chest. Through all the layers Jaskier wears, he still somehow burns against him. Geralt doesn’t bother to take the lead from him. His horse knows to follow the path at the press of his heels on her flank. He would rather put his hands to actual use and make sure his bard doesn’t fall as she canters. 

The town fades into view as the sun peaks through the cover of the trees. Few folk walk the road, all of them bumbling out of the witcher’s way once they see the deadly expression he bores to anyone wicked enough to try and stop him. Right as the sun crests above the mountains, they stop in front of the local inn. A stablehand—smart though green around his ears—takes the horse reins from Jaskier’s loose grasp, delicate in his pursuit. 

“M-master witcher,” the boy chokes out, staring at his unnatural, cat-like eyes. In this light, they might give off a faint glow. Terrifying for one so young, especially if they’ve only heard stories about witchers. Geralt doesn’t help ease the boy’s fear when he dismounts with a pointed snarl and barks orders to keep his horse clean or no god would save him from his ire. Once he lifts Jaskier to the ground, the stablehand scampers out of sight with Roach, back to the horses of other patrons. 

The threat was unnecessary. If she can defend herself well in a hunt, she can fight off a mere human child. But the ride had taken longer than expected, and a strange fury threatens to spill out of him at whoever meets him with a challenging eye. 

In the cover of his arms, Jaskier can barely stand, not without resting his entire weight on the witcher. That fury swells once again. 

Getting a good room was no trouble at all, what with the monsters scaring away wealthy customers. The innkeep did inform him that it would be up the stairs to the farthest door, a regrettable distance for his companion. 

Geralt blows out a gust for a sigh and shakes his head. “It’s fine.” Then he proceeds to tuck under the bard’s legs with one arm and wrap the other high around his slender chest, carrying him up the stairs. With Jaskier in his arms, he only has to worry about his own feet tripping him now. 

The abrupt movement must have startled his sick friend, though. Jaskier squirms in a panic on the first few steps and Geralt instinctively tightens his grip. 

“Hey—Jaskier, settle down!”

His voice booms in the confined space and Jaskier freezes, floating in the witcher’s strong arms. “Ah, em‘m sorry.” 

He sounds properly bashful, his face colored pink. The rest of the way to the rooms Jaskier hangs limp. Like this, he looks so small. Thin inside his puffy clothes. Jaskier is by no means frail, but he is still human, and sickly. Geralt knows how fast their bodies can break under pressure. 

Something about that horrifies him and he can’t bear to think further on it. He tucks those thoughts away to never be disclosed. 

The room that greets them is sparse in decor. A simple arrangement of furniture against the wall, with a bed that welcomes his charge. It affords privacy with a connected bath room should they call for one. Jaskier fidgets, gathered in his arms as he is, and Geralt quite frankly doesn’t know how best to put him down. Very easily he could just toss him on the goose-feather pillows. The bed looks sturdy enough. 

Geralt lays him down with care instead, the worn leather of his gloves parting sweaty hairs from Jaskier’s face. 

His heart pounds unpleasantly against his breastbone, with the way that Jaskier doesn’t react at the touch, still as a trapped mouse. Yet despite his weakened state, red-rimmed eyes peer up at the witcher’s face with such naked expectation. Waiting for what he’ll do next. 

Geralt is no healer. Powerless to ease his pain, he sits at the edge and watches for a second longer. It occurs to him to cover Jaskier well with cotton sheets. It would do good to keep the fever burning the sickness out of him until it breaks. When that will be, Geralt is none the wiser.

After thorough consideration, Geralt stands. “I’m going to speak to the alderman about the monsters harassing his people. Stay here, rest, don’t cause any trouble. I’ll call the town’s healer over and you better do as they say.”

Jaskier turns his face to the pillows, shoulders hitched to his ears like a child protecting its head. “Right. I’ll be no trouble at all.”

* * *

A dangerous rage simmers under Geralt’s skin. Every step he takes towards the beastly den is like kindling, fanning the flames. Merciless slaughter seems about the perfect thing to quell his ire. 

That’s the thing about hunting necrophages. Their actions bear no thought or complex will beyond feeding. It is a guiltless kill. Really, Geralt will be doing the ugly, fetid little corpses a favor by ending their cursed lives. All they do is disturb graves and feast on other dead creatures, though wandering fools might find themselves joining the dead—or _undead_ , regardless of the usual carrion diet of a rotfiend. 

The alderman had been sickeningly kind as to inform him that the corpses of many beloved villagers were ambling about a site to the east, eating their fill of each other and any who came upon them. Rotfiends, going by the description. Mindless meat sacks which for some ridiculous reason _explode_ when killed. Be that as it may, any witcher worth their coin could kill a nest of them with ease. The exploding is annoying enough for Geralt to haggle the alderman for a raise to deal with them. 

They curse him where he stands, but ultimately agree with the renamed offer. It’s nothing new to him. Many stingy folk undervalue his work, and for the most part, Geralt doesn’t care. A lot of the time it’s a dirty farmer or milkmaid begging his aid, not a rich lord well off in his castle. Those of a more noble disposition would think to pay little for his work, so as to not attract more witchers. 

Geralt has experience with the latter, enough to know that what the alderman seeks is a costless solution to a necrophage infestation, and the witcher is not one to allow that to slide. 

In town, they spit the ground he walks on. That is not why he is angry. Worse has been dealt to him by kinder people, and Geralt has developed an endless tolerance for human distaste. 

He’s angry because silence follows him, which makes him angrier for _not_ appreciating the silence. For days, on the road, Jaskier had been forced into muteness. And it hasn’t given him any sense of peace. If anything, hearing nothing from the bard save his soft breaths, for hours on end, raked on Geralt’s nerves. 

Now, he’s on the hunt, chasing a trail of blood to the rotfield nest, and shaking from the withheld anger. 

Jaskier sometimes spoke just to hear the sound of his own voice. To fill the gaps that Geralt readily left for him. It boggled his mind how someone could talk so much and yet say absolutely nothing. But that was Jaskier, all words. Only words. Seconded by strummed chords and ornate outfits. 

And here he is again, in the non-silence of the woods, mind drifting to the bard when it should be centered on the task at hand. Distractions cannot take place here. It becomes very difficult to part his thoughts from his friend who most probably is lying unconscious on his bed, or perhaps agonizing to the local healer about his woes. No, not agonizing. Jaskier had barely bothered him over his pains, and that thought alone causes Geralt another indecipherable ache right inside his lungs. 

It is just in that moment that a screech pierces through the forest air, followed by a chorus of weaker imitations. 

Geralt had never been so relieved to tear into a pack of necrophages.

Culling the herd takes him the better part of the day, though by evening he’s destroyed the den and burned the rotfield remains with a sharp cast of _Igni_. For this, Geralt leaves one to the side and chops its head off, clean. A token for the alderman, to earn his coin upon his return.

The squeak the man utters when he throws the carcass at his feet is priceless. Bloody and disheveled as he looks after the hunt, no one dares to bother him for his insolence. All Geralt has to do is smile with too many teeth flashing and the servants scramble to give him his due coin. 

For a brief second he remembers all the unflattering things Jaskier has called him for being precisely this sort of savage hellion with deserving clients, and his good spirits fall. Pearly laughter would have followed behind his right ear. Instead, there’s empty air where Jaskier usually stands. The fire that’s been stoked in his chest tightens into a ball. It is a feeling Geralt is learning to hate.

Though nothing will compare to the heartstopping panic he feels coming back in the rented room and finding Jaskier half-sprawled on the floor, sheets tangled around his waist. 

Geralt spares no second to reach him, dropping his bags and his swords hazaphardly on the floor. “Jaskier.” He’s careful not to shake him upright, though Geralt does try to lift him back to the bed with an inhuman grip. 

“W-whh, Geralt? I was thirsty...” Jaskier sounds beyond wrecked. A wet cough rattles in his lungs and the effort takes everything out of him. He goes completely limp in Geralt’s arms, his head twisted towards the floor. 

“Fucking— _fuck_. Don’t you pass out.” But he’s too late, Jaskier is most definitely already unconscious, breathing hard and raspy through his mouth. In the moment Geralt grabs the sheets, he realizes he’s plastered Jaskier’s blazing doublet with black handprints, and the sheets are no better now either. 

In a burst of movement, Geralt rips the hunting gloves off, along with anything else that’s gotten soaked through with blood until he’s down to just his trousers. None of the rotfields managed to cut through his armor, so all of the blood belonged to the disgusting creatures. Geralt has no qualms with throwing most of his clothes to a far corner and doing the same with Jaskier’s doublet and the ruined sheets. There’s a reason rotfields have _rot_ in the name, and he’s not about to lay a deadly infection on top of whatever ails his sick companion. 

He fetches fresh linens from the winter closet, bringing as much as is necessary to keep Jaskier comfortable. 

As Geralt works around him, he takes a good look at the feverish bard. 

Jaskier’s satin shirt is soaked through with sweat, his back one trailing dark spot that tucks inside his pants. The sight spurs Geralt to fetch a wet rag from an adjacent washbasin, to wipe Jaskier’s burning face, his flushed neckline. It’s a bit of sloppy work, but Jaskier’s taut expression relaxes, so he redoubles his efforts and wets the rag for a second wash. 

He’s not good at this. Caring for the sick is not something that’s trained into witchers, though they learn how to treat their own wounds—any kind of wound. Potions do most of the work anyway, their mutated bodies stitching together from the inside to survive the impossible. But Jaskier is not a witcher, he is just a simple, _frustrating_ human man, and right now he looks so pale, shivering despite the heat that must be racking through him, discomfort blooming underneath his skin.

Eventually, Geralt stops wiping in favor of pouring some water for Jaskier to drink. He’d said he was thirsty. That was why Geralt found him sprawled on the ground, too weak to even reach the fresh pitcher set apart by the room’s lone window. In hindsight, Geralt shouldn’t be mad Jaskier hadn’t called for help. He’d told him to stay out of trouble, and apparently the bard took that to mean that he couldn’t _talk_ to anyone other than the healer—damned crook who clearly hadn’t even bothered to show up in the witcher’s absence. 

Geralt only has himself to blame. And he does, because for days, Jaskier had been staving off sickness in silence. He didn’t trust in telling Geralt how bad his condition had become, and something about that hurt somewhere Geralt’s never felt pain before. People have disappointed him, betrayed him for their own needs and wishes first. It no longer surprises him when someone who once confidently called him friend turns their back on him. But Jaskier is not like that. He still looks at the witcher with kindness. When their eyes meet, accident or otherwise, the bard doesn’t flinch. His heart doesn’t skip with fear-sweat. He just smiles. 

So why didn’t he tell him how bad he’d gotten? 

A thousand excuses fly across Geralt’s mind, each worse than the last, as he resettles the bard in a more comfortable position. Shivers still rake through his slight frame. More blankets will only suffocate him, so Geralt inches to the opposite side of the bed and crawls over the many covers. 

There’s enough space to fit someone like him, barely, but if he hunches forward around the top pillows and presses Jaskier’s head under his chest, they fit. Geralt has to curl around him though, like a wounded dog hiding its wound. In a few hours, the angle will become uncomfortable. His back will hate him for it in the morning. One of his shoulders pushes hard against the bedframe’s wooden bars as his head dangles from the pillows placed for Jaskier’s comfort. 

But like this, Jaskier’s quick raspy breaths slow. His body squirms closer to the new warm presence beside him and his shivering stops, replaced by a few shudders every now and then. 

Geralt cups the back of Jaskier’s neck and keeps him tucked next to his heart. He’s not good at this, caring for the sick. For Jaskier, he’s willing to learn. 

Soon, Geralt drifts into a half-meditative state, his free arm a firm lock atop the bard for when he stirs. It would do no good for him to fall off the bed again, and Geralt doesn’t dare sleep, not deeply. 

The healer, an aged man with a satchel that smells like earth and mixtures, comes to visit while they rest in a tangle. Geralt knows because he’d left one of his eyes slightly open, as any good witcher would do in an unfamiliar place, and he sees him cross the threshold of the room with considerate steps. 

“I bear no ill intent, master witcher.”

In the time that it took for Geralt to rouse, both eyes open and staring, the healer pauses halfway to his patient. Geralt can feel why. A rumble is rocking out of his chest, unbidden. Geralt stops it. He’d apparently been growling at the good man without meaning to.

But the gentleman’s leather-sported hands, well-intentioned as they were, near Jaskier much too swiftly and Geralt catches one in a forceful grip. 

Instead of ripping his hand back, the healer _sighs_. It sounds exasperated, like he’s dealt with unruly customers and feral witchers far too many times. “I can’t help if you don’t let me.”

Geralt keeps his eyes trained on the healer. Slowly, he unclasps his hand from the captured wrist. Whatever the old healer is about to say catches in his throat when Jaskier lets out a lengthy cough. 

His old face turns serious and sets about opening his satchel on the nearest bedstand, the one with a half empty pitcher of water. 

With his bag open, the earthy smells of celandine and rosemary seep out into the room, and it’s relaxing in a way Geralt hadn’t expected. There, he watches the old healer work silently, as he swipes firm but gentle fingers inside the bard’s chest and over his pulse points. 

The man knows his craft, and he works very professionally. It’s well appreciated. Though there is the issue of a massive witcher judging his every move. 

Jaskier twitches a bit when he tugs the skin under one eye to see the color inside. “Eaten anything today?” The question is directed at Geralt, though he means Jaskier. 

“No. Don’t think anyway,” Geralt mutters with distaste. It’s true, now that he thinks about it. They hadn’t had time for breakfast on the ride to town, and he’s sure no one’s come to offer the bard morsels seeing as he’d been left unattended to as the witcher slayed his beasts. 

With that in mind, the old man starts grinding a few herbs in a bowl. Geralt can pick up garlic in the mix. “And how long has he been ill?”

That makes him frown. “Since a storm.” 

“That wouldn’t have given him the fever, though it might be it lowered his defenses and he picked up a bug later.”

Geralt remembers the filthy bar in the previous town. Unappetizing food, with equally unpleasant folk. Jaskier managed to wring a few coins from them though. 

It looks like he wrung something else from them too. 

A clinking sound distracts Geralt from his thoughts derailing into a vengeful fantasy. The healer has finished scraping herbs together and is in the middle of mixing a draught with a helping of water from the pitcher. 

“Could you raise him up and have him drink this, please.”

The request is sensible, and Geralt straightens up with a crick in his neck. He spares a second to feel embarrassed. The old healer hadn’t taken insult to his harsh treatment, bestial as it was at first. And he hadn’t batted an eye to the witcher’s protective—and doubtlessly unhelpful—grip on his patient. Geralt still feels rather like a boy again, chastened for hoarding treats away from his schoolmates. 

With quick work, he lifts Jaskier up by his chest and makes sure his head is supported, but not raised so far as to choke on the medicine. Geralt makes sure to hold him while the healer has him swallow it down. Blessedly, nothing goes wrong and Jaskier only starts coughing after Geralt gives his throat a few massages to coach the draught down. 

“This will ease his symptoms. Do have him eat something when next he wakes.” At that, the old man packs his things and shakes the wrinkles out of his coat. He gives the witcher one long, unimpressed look. “If the fever’s not gone in a day, consider my service free of charge. Good day now.”

They’re left alone then. With the room still smelling faintly of spices and crushed herbs, Geralt lets himself close his eyes. He’s not sleeping, not yet. Far too early for that. Jaskier, on the other hand, still needs his rest, so he rearranges them again, as they were before the healer’s visit. 

This time he fits the crown of Jaskier’s head closer to his chin. Through the layers of sweat, lavender wafts under his nose. A faint scent, but it is such an integral part of who Jaskier is to him that it eases Geralt’s nerves. Nerves he hadn’t even realized were pricked at attention like goose flesh under cold air. 

Jaskier lets out a soft snore, and he already sounds better. Less congested. Clammy hands curl over the witcher’s arms. It’s an unconscious search for comfort. 

The fire that’s been sparking and raging for hours inside Geralt finally dissipates. 

* * *

He’s so cold. Cold and so impossibly hot at the same time. If Jaskier were to describe the sensation, he would say his body boils like a geyser, threatening to burst with dangerous volcanic energy and yet the rest of him freezes under snow and ice. It’s delirium.

He knows he makes a pitiful creature and he hates it. The one mercy he wishes for is that, whatever it is that is killing him, quickens its pace. Certainly death _must_ be fast coming for him. He cannot understand why he is suffering so much otherwise. 

Thankfully, it’s dark behind his eyelids. His head isn’t threatening to split open anymore, and if he tries, Jaskier is confident that he could actually move his legs over the edge of the bed instead of falling out of it to a crawl. That he could stand up is a different matter, and not one he is interested in exploring. Not when the cold that bites at his fingertips is being tempered by a close warmth, radiating into his bones. 

He makes a sound, he thinks. Something scratches uncomfortably inside his throat, and a second later that warmth bursts around him, straight down his back and circling up to where his hair meets his nape. 

It’s a hand, Jaskier realizes, and it rubs a soothing pattern over his rumpled shirt. He can hear how something resonates close to his ear, like a low drum in an orchestra. 

In the next second, or minute, or perhaps even hour—Jaskier cannot keep track of time, it rather feels like he’s drifting from waking moment to waking moment—, a blanket wraps around him from the tip of his toe right up to his collarbones. The ice thaws out of him piece by piece, and all he’s left with is an uncomfortable hot sensation. He recognizes the smell, chamomile and soap. It’s a bath. A sigh escapes him. It smells so nice.

A mitten for a hand touches his forehead and Jaskier startles with a coughing fit. 

“Calm, easy.”

He knows that voice. He would know it blind and lost in darkness. 

_Geralt_.

Immediately, Jaskier slumps with relief. It’s Geralt who readied the bath, probably paying extra for it. Geralt who soaks up water in a scented bowl and wipes his neck with slow, deliberate strokes meant to break down the tension from his shoulders. 

Somewhere in that quiet comfort, Jaskier misses the passage of time again. When he next gathers enough strength to open his eyes, he is dressed, laid back on the bed with what looks like a dozen tossed sheets and Geralt right there with him bearing a serious expression. 

“You need to eat.”

The words are sound and logical, but Jaskier doesn’t quite have the energy for chewing. Something like nausea churns in his gut at the idea of dumping food in his body. 

In the next moment, there’s small, bitty pieces of bread being pushed in front of his lips. 

“ _Eat_ ,” the witcher urges again. Jaskier is too tired to fight him so he just lets his jaw fall slack and takes an incredibly sluggish bite. At least the bread is soft, easy to break. It fills an empty pit inside him, the nausea spiking for a second before it settles. He dares to take another bite, then another.

Then there’s a cup of water pressed to his lips, and that he takes greedily. 

“Easy, you’ll vomit if you chug it down.” 

Jaskier scoffs—painful but worth it—and throws his head to the closest soft surface. It is apparently the witcher himself, naked from the waist up and glued to the bard’s back. Radiating heat. Jaskier turns to look at Geralt then, a blush covering his face. He hadn’t really noticed how close Geralt was holding him, how he was keeping him cradled against his scarred chest.

Light refracts from the witcher’s eyes much like a cat’s would, when they stare with large bottomless pupils. He wouldn’t say Geralt’s bright gaze shares that likeness in the moment, but they are most certainly peering at his face with such open consideration. 

His voice is still rough, but Jaskier makes sure to utter a solid, “Thank you.” 

Two words that carry so much weight, so much more than a simple declaration of gratitude. Because Geralt is _there_ , has been there to soothe him, wash him. To share in his plight. It feels silly now, remembering how worried he had been that Geralt would have sooner abandoned him than stay to bother with his ailments. 

But then, that is his own failing, isn’t it? Because Geralt is the same man who forwent a contract to slaughter a cursed creature, in order to cure it. A man who would put so much of himself forward to preserve life, to _save_. He is merciless, and yet somehow so full of mercy and bottled up _goodness_ that it comes out in the shape of blunted knives, a weapon that, once you look close enough, cannot really cut. Of _course_ he would save Jaskier. Of course he would stay.

Jaskier greets the witcher with a smile, and the softened look that he is gifted in return melts what little ice is still left tormenting him.

* * *

When next Jaskier wakes, the fever has already broken. Geralt has changed positions slightly, his body wrapped high around him on the bed. Long streaks of white hair now block some of his vision, and there’s a wall of muscle pressing against his face. How he does it, Jaskier isn’t sure, but the image quite reminds Jaskier of how a house pet hoards blankets and pillows, refusing to lay anywhere else but _right_ on the most annoying spot for its human master. 

All while contorted in what must be the most uncomfortable angle possible. 

Jaskier rubs the sleep out of his eyes. “Morning.”

He receives no answer back, which isn’t all that unusual. What _is_ unusual is the tense set of the witcher’s frame, something he cannot physically ignore. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier raises his eyes to meet Geralt’s.

What he finds is the witcher’s face pinched in a severe expression.

“You shouldn’t be with me on the path.”

Ah, he thinks, that’s _one_ way to start a conversation first thing in the morning. But it’s Geralt, and Geralt has a way with jumping to conclusions. Jaskier lowers his gaze. His voice still carries a light tone. “Because I’m sick?”

“No,” the hand cupped in Jaskier’s hair clenches tight and—isn’t _that_ something to study now, how Geralt so freely has offered him touch and comfort? “No, I mean at all. You...don’t belong with me.”

That gives Jaskier pause. Enough that he has to look at the witcher again to see if he’s not angry with him, or if he’s truly had enough of him. If one night caring for his sickly self was one night too many. 

But all he finds is an utterly confused fool. Geralt cannot even hide the bewildered look in his yellow eyes, or the tight knot between his eyebrows that spells out how difficult a time he is having understanding it. Understanding _them,_ as if they are some sort of complicated puzzle that requires too many pieces to decipher.

Jaskier is especially gentle when he speaks. “Well then, why do you let me traipse along, if you don’t want my company?” He cards careful fingers up the witcher’s jaw, feeling the rough outline of Geralt’s growing beard. His next words are quiet, but they are close enough that it doesn’t matter. “I thought you were going to shrug me onto a healer and leave.”

“I wouldn’t—“

“And why haven’t you? If I shouldn’t follow after you.”

Geralt struggles to piece together an answer that isn’t a puff of air. What a man of contrarian thoughts, telling Jaskier that he does not belong with him, and yet, when given the perfect opportunity, the witcher is incapable of leaving him alone. 

For all his absurdity, it brings a half smile to the bard’s face. “You are absolutely in your right to not want my company. If you _really_ didn’t want it. But if you must know, I like yours. Genuinely, you ridiculous oaf.”

Jaskier finishes the _‘oaf’_ by crawling upwards and giving the witcher a gentle peck on his parted lips. 

It lasts barely a moment, though his heart beats hard against his ribcage, threatening to leap out. As he pulls back, he can’t quite see Geralt’s face through the curtain of white hair. There’s a hum there, in the witcher’s lips, and Jaskier is suddenly shot cold with dread that the kiss was thoroughly unwelcome, and he was utterly wrong to assume his place. But Geralt doesn’t pull away. After a long, agonizing wait, Geralt draws Jaskier closer, gradually by his neck, and once there, once he tucks the bard under his chin and his silver hair shields him against the world, he nuzzles the top of his fuzzy, lavender-scented head. 

“Hmm,” Jaskier preens, his pulse still thundering in his ears. “Now this is much more preferable, wouldn’t you say?”

Lute-callused fingers skim past the witcher’s chin to his lips, where a grin stretches them across Geralt’s face. 

Jaskier’s chest swells with emotion, and he works very hard to memorize every sensation. The feel of a canine poking his curious fingertip. The rumble just barely registering in his ears, but burning hot beheath his face. Almost as much as his own face burns like he’s caught a second fever. 

If he can be a little pebble of contentment in the witcher’s life, then it doesn’t matter what Geralt says, or what he thinks _‘should be’_. He’ll remain firmly by his side like a stubborn old ox. 

“Next time,” Geralt breathes against his hand, “Tell me when you’re sick.”

“Alright. I can do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me @the_sevent on twitter, if that's your thing.
> 
> I also caved and made a tumblr @seventfics.


End file.
